


If Today Was Your Last Day

by MoreThingsDreamtof



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean is musing and bitter, Gen, Set during the end of season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoreThingsDreamtof/pseuds/MoreThingsDreamtof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Country singers have no idea what they're talking about. Dying isn't friggin' inspiring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Today Was Your Last Day

**Author's Note:**

> Malki said this made her tear up, but then she's got a pretty low threshold. Enjoy.

       Dean always hated those sappy country songs about living each day to the fullest. _"If today was your last_ " " _don't blink or you'll miss it_ " " _Live like you were dying_ ". Because those dumbasses had no idea what dying was really like.

    They had no clue what knowing what it was like to watch their own lifespan tick away in midnights passing, in the hour digit of a clock changing from 11 to 12. Didn't know the way watching the sunlight shift from bright afternoon yellow of an mid-April afternoon to evening could made you want to scream. And it wasn't frigging inspiring. It didn't make him want to try to rodeo just this once to see if he could; didn't make him want to call all the contacts in his phone to let them know how he really felt about them; dying wasn't a new lease on life. 

     It was a countdown.

     It was three weeks. Then two and a half. Then fifteen days.   
   

      It was driving as fast as he could in the impala, cursing the fact that America was so damn big, that he was spending his last hours watching nothing but road signs flash past and passing ugly trucks of rednecks in the other lane.

     It was pointedly not looking his little brother in the eye, because he could see the same panic reflected there: the desperate fruitless need for the earth to stop spinning, for clocks to stop ticking so damn quickly.

     It was waking up at four am to see Sam illuminated in blue light, hunched over the computer screen, researching demon deals for the thousandth time. 

     It was hating Monday mornings and Saturday nights, because it meant another precious week was gone.

     It wasn't the chance to live in the moment- it was grabbing on to moments that kept sliding through his fingers like a wet bar of soap.

     It was the sound of dogs howling in the distance.


End file.
